the theft of words

you want the truth? I forgot about plagiarism.

I'm not in high school or college anymore. the word stopped being something I heard all the time. but somehow, it was one of those things that slipped away from me.

plagiarism is one of those things that almost seems surreal. it's the concept of taking the work of someone else and putting it out into the world under your name. in the literary world, it's the taking of words. someone else's words, breathed from their spirit, and putting your name on them.

it's theft.

and then it happened today, right in front of my nose. a post made its way around the internet, a good post, one that felt familiar but it felt good also. I shared it, so did others. we commented and ooh'd and ahh'd and tweeted the link to our corner of the internet. and then today, we understood why it felt so familiar.

{photo by Jennifer Upton}

someone else had written it, long before it made its way to this new space. the words we were sharing, they didn't belong to this new voice. they were taken. stolen.

it makes me feel like I'm watching The Little Mermaid. a voice stolen, pulled from a throat and swallowed down into someone else's body. it's a deeply personal destruction. if you take someone's television or their wallet, you're taking a piece of earth. something physical, something replaceable.

when you take someone else's words, you're taking a piece of spirit, a piece of themselves. sometimes, it's not replaceable. the words can be repeated, but there is something deeper taken. it's a guttural, visceral violation.

i don't understand why it's ever done.

****

there's a big lie out there, one that seems to slip in among the writers like poison gas that can kill us while we are completely unaware. it's the lie that you don't have words. it's the lie that you have no story, that you have nothing to say of worth. it's the lie that your words don't exist.

but there's something we've forgotten. there was a Voice in the beginning, speaking words over empty space and watching light and earth and sea and sky and plants and creatures appear from the void. simply through words. His words. His song.

and then, on the sixth day, there came more words: come and let Us make man in Our own image. hands and words joined together, art of a whole different sort began. He spoke, and there was Life.

do you know what that means? do you understand?

{photo by Jennifer Upton}

you are made of words. 

your skin. your soul. your wild parts, your sacred parts, your everyday parts. it's all words. they're waiting, lingering just beneath the surface. you have your own words.

you don't need someone else's words to make you a writer. 

you have a story. it's pulsing beneath the surface. you have thoughts, points, valid observations about the world around you. you have a voice. and maybe it's a little rusty from lack of use. maybe it's a little skittish because of the way you were treated. maybe it's a little soft because you weren't taught how to raise it up.

but it's there.

you don't need someone else's words to make you a writer because you already have your own.

because you already are your own. 

when you haven't written a book

{photo by Jennifer Upton}

I'm the blogger than hasn't written a book.

it's funny, and then, it's not, because everywhere you look anymore, having a book with your name on the cover and your picture on the back is becoming the norm. at least, in my circles, it is. and it's damn intimidating.

it's hard to feel like a lioness when you're mewing and scratching at the door in your own head.

recently, I wrote for Preston Yancey about what women want from the church. my answer was voice, the chance to stand up and speak on par with all the other masculine heads that tower above me. and then i start to get a good look around me, and I start to think, well, maybe my voice doesn't count because it's never been between two covers. 

I am Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole with nothing to hold onto, finding myself flat on my face in a strange sort of Wonderland. I'm a flower with the wrong kind of petals, they whisper...or am I just imagining it because I'm too scared to admit that maybe I might fit in here after all?

I don't have an MD, but then, I'm not a doctor. I'm a healer with a satchel of words. I feel like a midwife in a world full of modern medicine. and it's not wrong, because there's a time and a place for those who have greater experience in other areas than me. but sometimes you just need that silence, the hands that wrap around your shoulders and whisper, breathe through this. I've got you. 

this is how I will {eventually} write my book. this is a vow to myself. it's a pledge that my words belong in hands, shared over coffee and firelight, breathed from one mouth to another.

I just hope that I'll eventually find my corner and admit to myself that I myself am breathed from the lips of Holiness, that every fibre of my being hums with the chorus of the Spirit-Song composed before the dawn of time.

I'm the blogger that hasn't written a book.

yet.

dark horse

{pinterest}

i am my own dark horse.

i love that expression :: dark  horse, emerging from the back of the pack, from nothing to prominence. there's something so powerful about the image. it's sacred.

it's something i've come to realize about myself in recent days. this process of blogging has been a gradual metamorphosis, a process of flushing out what i really think about the world, about my faith, about what i want to do with my writing. i was this strange caterpillar creature, this thing that had its own strange beauty, but looked just like all the rest. and then i crawled into my cocoon and things started to shift inside.

ever since i started lifting my eyes to meet the faces around me and speaking a little braver, i've felt vulnerable in a way that i haven't experienced in a long time. i've been doing a lot of thinking, filling my mental pages with so many notes and thoughts with very little making it to paper. that's odd for me, as i tend to gravitate toward scribbling ink-notes on any scrap within my reach.

i'm starting to realize that blogging might be more of a contact sport than i originally anticipated.

so you wanna play with magic. you should know what you're falling for. 

baby, do you dare to do this? i'm coming at you like a dark horse.
:: dark horse :: katy perry ::  

i just wanted to write pretty words. i just wanted to be famous. i wanted to play with the big boys and girls who sat at their computers and sussed out beautiful words and had people gasping and nodding and whispering, "so true, oh yes, very profound."

i don't know when it got so real. i don't know when i stopped writing the surface and found myself under the water, completely engulfed. i don't know when my voice started getting louder. it's still shaking, but it's getting louder.

love is not a victory march
it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

and i'm starting to realize that this rise and fall, this wave and this shift, it's normal. it's what i can anticipate now as i'm opening my shutters further. the more Light that plays on the floor, the warmer i become. it's filling me up, exploding out my fingers and toes. it's the most holy-hush i've ever experienced.

i'm becoming more and more okay with my lack of "safe faith." it was a statement, repeated over and over, almost becoming trite like a repeated mealtime prayer :: not safe, but good. but it's not just words anymore. it's my existence. i have flung myself off the cliff, and i'm falling at break-neck speed. it's a whirlwind. 

but i can smell Him in the air. 

// releasing all over again

{via pinterest}

i used to blog every single day.

before the season of my life when i was pregnant with our daughter, i was hitting publish every single day. and it was less because i was prolific, and more because i had a simple selfish goal in mind: i wanted to be famous.

at the time, i was barely out of my teens {which, if you want to be technical, i'm still barely out of my teens} and was shuffling my way around the youth blogging world. and let's be honest, there are some amazing young bloggers out there who are really putting their voices out there.

and of course, i wanted to be just like them. i've wanted to be a famous writer my entire life, and i suppose i thought, if i can't get a book published, i'll put my blog in the limelight instead.

but i lost myself somewhere in that process. i can remember staring at the laptop nearly sobbing with fear :: i don't know what to say. i'm out of words. but i have to write. 

my pregnancy which started out my 2012 spun me for a much needed loop. and down i came from my self-constructed pedestal , striking a lot of rocks on the way down that rocked me to the very core. my husband calls it the demolition. i call it the dark night of the soul. my wrestling with the Most High.

:: it was here that i started to find my voice.


the poet-king wailed his psalms, his poetic voice. and like David, wrapped in a cave in the side of a mountain, i started to strum my soul's strings and things started to come out. scary things, things that intimated me, things that made me want to shut down and give up.

but something told me not to do it, that maybe there was a purpose in this little internet corner that was about more than being famous, that was about reaching out and smearing warpaint on the cheeks of those who needed to know there was more, that they were more....and that they were seen. 

there is a gush of sacred, an embracing of selah, and the screaming wailing war-cry akin to giving birth. because it's a hard process, and it takes incredible strength. and it's okay to reach out, to take the hand of a soul-doula and press your forehead to hers and let it pour.

maybe it's not about the amount of words i can pound out in the space of a week. because i've started to find my groove, less posting but more writing. my word for 2013 was release, a word that i did not fully understand until these past couple months. a word that has been gripping me by the heart and speaking in the voice of the Lion that i adore

:: let. the eff. go. 
release to Me, you lioness.  
because I promise, I have not failed you yet.

and i've started to exhale, feeling all of me unclench and the surrender coming like a broken dam that brings a lot of tears and a lot of clinging to the One who is counting every single drop. the One who is seeing my awakening and is stroking my hair while i let it all go.

the King of Kings is holding back my hair.

and i'm not done yet, not by a long shot. i'm still working on my book, a dream that i have never given up. i have a brand-new jar of warpaint and a beautiful tribe with their hands on my shoulders.

and i'm ready.

shekhinah motherhood

{via pinterest}

i have a new adventure.

i have started a mommy blog. i still cannot believe it myself. it's a new corner of the world for me, a place where i can write about my thoughts solely regarding pregnancy and this coming child.

and i want you all to share in this. i will most certainly still be writing here, hopefully more often as my body levels out and my mind clears itself. the Lion and i are drawing closer, and things are settling into peace now.

strivings do cease in His shadow. 

shekhina hmotherhood is my new corner.here i am practicing the presence of God as i walk down this path of pregnancy, motherhood, and eventually, cradling this child in my arms.

this firstborn of mine, this gift from God to be given back to God. these are the ponderings of my heart, this Mary-like attitude that overwhelms me as i discern what to share and what to treasure.

and so i am writing in two places now, and perhaps this may seem insane or too much. but we will see how things go, as weeks shorten and days become brighter. this child is coming soon, and i want to know and understand my mind in days to come when i look back and remember.

find me here, as always. but find me there now, too.

connection in the Sovereign

{via pinterest}

when i tell people that i blog, sometimes i get the strangest looks. when i mention a friend that i have made, how dear she is to my soul but our only connection has been the one that flutters through cyberspace, the looks intensify.

because it doesn't make sense, if you give it too much thought, and if you don't understand.

how does it work, exactly, for women of every walk and every age and every standard to merge their souls and bare their hearts to one another?

does connection take face to face, hand to hand, and breath to breath?

or is it about heart more than flesh?

because there is love that radiates 

from screen to screen. 

there are voices that ring together with laughter over steaming coffee mugs, and then there are the clusters gathered to weep and mourn a broken heart with tears that flow in brokenness, despite the distance.

there is connection. 

this i promise you.

this is the blending of earthy and sacred. i've said it before, and perhaps too often.

but, oh, God became flesh, and gold became straw.

and connections become invisible and fingers touch and grasp together.

these sisters, these seekers that stand together with one hand stretched to Heaven and the other pressed to qwerty keys, they understand.

this is sacred connection of the strangest type.

this is Sovereign sisterhood.

bits {71-83}

let's waste time chasing cars around  our heads. ~Snow Patrol, Chasing Cars


it's been an intense week.

and now it's Monday. i'm so very in love with this Monday, though.

thus far, it's been perfect.autumny cool and rich in grace.

i may have just jinxed my elegant morning, but still. it was flawless.

and i'm in love with the simple things that have been my companions this week.

those little things that have made this path worth walking

 and these evenings full of reveling and delights. 

• 71. music. searching through iTunes for new favourites to create my autumn playlist.  Alex Goot. Audrey Assad. He Is We. this song in particular is worthy of dancing every time it's played, which has been a lot. so is this one.

• 72. the return of my mum and sister to the United States. three months was truly too long. 

• 73. french braids and neon-green ribbons. sister time with German chocolates and Jane Eyre. 

• 74. the sweetness of late nights, snuffly snores blending with Gilmore Girls. 

• 75. lace curtain stargazing

• 76. early-birthday kisses from my grandfather. just a bit past 70 and one of my best friends. 

• 77. rehearsals that make me think, maybe i can do this after all. 

• 78. a word. just a word. Mine. 

• 79. freedom from fear. from sin. from death. knowing whatever my lot, it is well with my soul. 

• 80. family. my family, in particular. 

• 81. food blogs. the kind that make your stomach rumble and your mouth water and your fingers itch to take up a wooden spoon and create something magic. 

• 82. gardens that speak of Jane Austen and smell of lavender and sage. 

• 83. the ability to approach without fear. being able to pray. 

these are those tidbits. those little big things in which i could lose myself forever. 

blessed beyond measure.

linking with multitudes on Mondays. 
so much beauty found here. 

S'ensuivre (Follow)

I know I've already posted today. Maybe I need to break this habit of posting more than once a day.

But in all honesty, this topic has been brewing in my mind for quite some time now. And after reading today's post on Jocee's blog, my heart's whisperings have been confirmed.

Blogging is not a popularity contest.

I don't know when the focus shifted from beautiful words and stunning photography...just enough to make you catch your breath and really thing...to the pursuit of comments and high follower counts.

It has stopped becoming a place of elegance, of soul and depth.

It's become high school all over again.

The ones with the most followers are the ones to know, if you're lucky enough for them to cast your gaze over you.

Please understand --  I know I'm generalizing a bit here, as there are so many of you who have the most beautiful hearts that only amplifies your popularity.

I'm not saying that having hundreds of  followers or a high view count is a bad thing. Not at all. It's a very nice thing, I will admit.

But this is my point.

Blogging is not a contest. 

It's not a war to be won, or a status symbol to be proclaimed. 

50 followers or 5,000. 

Since when did it start to matter so much? 

I won't lie and say that it doesn't feel amazing when I see my follower list increasing, or when I read more and more comments flooding a certain post...or that it doesn't sting when my numbers go down, or my page views decrease. 

But I don't understand why. 

I just want to write. I just want to sing. I just want to paint my watercoloured poetry across this tiny corner of canvas I've been given. 

...since when did that become not enough? 

It's about light. 

It's about words.

It's about friendship.

It's about Him. 

Be my friend or don't. Follow me or don't. Read my blog or don't. It's starting not to matter anymore.

But I will be your friend.

Regardless. 

Voice

Freedom has a thousand charms to show,
That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
~William Cowper

I was recently given a very great compliment by a blogging friend of mine. She commented to me that she loved how I had "found my voice."

It broke my heart and yet gave me such freedom to have to tell her that she was mistaken.

I don't have my voice yet.

Every post is an example of over-analysis...self-deprecation...doubt that allows nothing but perfection to escape into this blogging world.

Or into any part of the world, for that matter.

There is a tiny voice in my head that points out my every flaw...makes me feel guilty for mistakes I have not even made yet...for posting things that might offend my readers.

No, I have not yet found my voice.

Posts like skyeyes and grace alone. are slow steps of bravery.

Slow steps to freedom.

I won't even begin to pretend perfection, as much as I wish I could. Even as I wrote those above posts, my fingers shook at the idea of releasing just broken imperfection to the world at large.

I'm a broken mirror...I don't want my fractured reflection to ruin me.

I don't have my voice yet.

I'm currently undergoing vocal surgery.

I'm under the knife...

...it hurts as each cleansing pass of the blade cuts away more and more of my self-shame and indescribable fear.

He's changing me. He's mending the mirror.

I won't be the same when He's done.

I'll finally have a voice that I will be unashamed to use.

I never want to go back to prison.

To bondage.

To silence.

If I could hear Christ praying for me in the next room, I would not fear a million enemies.  Yet distance makes no difference.  He is praying for me.  ~Robert M. McCheyne

Respuesta (Answer)

I have no special talents.  I am only passionately curious.  ~Albert Einstein

Questions are a marvel of mine.

There is something so provocative, so deeply poignant, found within the curious ponderings of the human mind.

It fascinates me.

And so now, as promised, I have come to answer the questions poised to me in this post by so many precious and equally curious minds: Jess, Ashley, Christina, Kelsey, and Hannah.

In short, I will be honest...straightforward.

Read if you will.

What is your favourite type of music? 

Truly, I enjoy all types of music, with the exclusion of heavy metal, excessive rap, and overly "twangy" country. Those who know me know that my favourite artists include Owl City, Breanne Duran, Imogene Heap, and Brooke Fraser. 

If you could travel to three places, where would they be?

Peru. 

India. 

Paris.

What was your happiest moment last year? 

 To chose just one? So incredibly difficult. 

I would have to say the birth of my beautiful niece...holding her and cuddling with her for the first time, only moments after her birth. Such a precious gift, and such a beautiful moment. 

A few of your favourite bloggers?

To make this list is so deeply complicated and so very difficult! 

I love every single one of my fellow bloggers...but those that top my list are Carlotta, Olivia, Rain, Jocee, Jess, Polka Dot, and Grace. 

Your pet peeves?

People that interrupt. Men that disrespect/make jokes that degrade women. Theatrical politics. Dripping faucets. Daily drama being made public. Phones ringing in movie theaters/playhouses/etc. 

Your pet loves?

Kisses on my face, forehead, and nose. My niece's smile. Hearing my love call me beautiful. The Book of Isaiah. British accents. Properly used grammar. Inca Cola & Dr. Pepper. Sunsets. Hand-written letters. The smell of new books.  Watching the face of the groom as the bride walks down the aisle. Laughter. My King. 

How do you write so well? Did you take a course? 

I do not write so well. I write my heart on the page, and you may do with it what you will. And no, I did not take a course or any sort of college education, save the classes I took during High School.

Where do you find the pictures that you have in your posts?

Unless otherwise captioned, all photos are taken from WeHeartIt. 

What is your favourite holiday?

Easter, hands down. 

Such love and glory magnified into one single day. The world can barely contain such beauty.

What are three of the books that influenced you and your writing the most, books that inspire you, books that make you who you are?

To only choose three? Difficulty personified. 

Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, J.K. Rowling

Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen

I assumed the Bible was a given, as it and its Authour have transformed my life.

Which people, either living or dead, inspire you the most?

My grandfathers, one who is now with his King, and the other with whom I still cherish this lifetime.

My grandmothers, both beautiful and strong women who have prayed me into existence.

My birthmother. Flooded with courage. 

My mother. My model.

My father. My hero.

My sister. My best friend.

My love. My champion, and my Prince Charming.

My King. My Savior. My God. My Father.

If your house caught fire, which five items would be the most important for you to save?

My Bible.

My stuffed lamb, Lucy, which I have had since I was born. I love her. I am unashamed to admit this.

My laptop.

Other than these things, nothing else matters more than the lives of those whom I love and care about. If they are safe, I am the richest of women. 

White, dark, or milk chocolate.

Yes, yes, and yes. 

What is one without the others?

If you have read to the end of this post, I applaud your endurance...I value your curiosity.

If you have any other questions for me, never be afraid to ask them. There is always room for more answers, even if it takes another post to answer them 

Never stop searching for answers. 

You never know from whom and from whence they shall be found. 

Curiosity is little more than another name for Hope.  ~Augustus William Hare and Julius Charles Hare

Blogginista

"A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely un-happen." ~Edward de Bono

I never set out to be a blogger.

Or maybe I did.

I'm still honestly not sure.

Like I've said in previous posts, this blog is actually the third in a string of online attempts to start some sort of place in which to ramble, think, and process my life...

...not counting my now ancient and long-untouched Xanga and Myspace pages...and yes, I did just date myself and make myself feel incredibly old for almost 21, but that's beside the point.

I never wanted to be one of those bloggers...those that penned their every waking movement and each step they took into an online play-by-play. The same goes for my Facebook...breakfast food choices or private boy-girl-best friend-off and on again drama are simply not topics for public display.

I was only going to post a few mental thoughts, maybe a paper napkin poem or two...maybe I'd post, maybe I wouldn't. Maybe I would share this place with my friends, or I might just keep it to myself forever.

...whoops.

I seem to have accidentally become a blogginista.

I have the sweetest and most precious of friends that I have never met, and yet seem to know me so well.

I have fallen prey to faithfully reading "famous blogs," such as Aspire, Of Horsefeathers, and (life is too short not to) wear red shoes, marveling at their following and longing to be like them one day.

I've started carrying my laptop everywhere, and caught myself overwhelmed with excitement..."I have to blog that!"

I've fallen in love with my corner of the internet.

I draw my heart on my sleeve, and write my dreams up and down my arms.

I'm not writing down every little moment.

But this dramatically elegant gypsy is making her own memories.

Keystroke by keystroke.

Post by post.

Minute by minute.


As I felt the even tide / Deep in my shallow dreams.  / And then, when the empress run aground,  / And my eyes turned blue and green, / I heard a gorgeous sound, / And that's when it became a dream, / When the sky fell in, / When the hurricanes came for me, / I could finally crash again, / And that's how I became the sea. ~Owl City, How I Became the Sea

Inspire

Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes.  Art is knowing which ones to keep.  ~Scott Adams


One thing that I get asked more than anything is how I get so much inspiration...how it seems like I have an endless pot of artistry, and it flows from me in a copious amount.


I will be honest...I really have no such thing.


I run out of inspiration on a regular basis. I start posts constantly that never find their way to being published onto the blog. 


I try to write pen-to-paper, or rather, fingers-to-keys...not letting my overly-analytical brain to get in the way of my dreamer's heart.


But, to my own deep regret, I turn my nose up at my own work and allow it to sit without ever seeing the light of day. 


There are so many things that inspire me, though...so many things that move my fingers to dart a new path across the keys. 

• Summer days, complete with lemonade and fresh-picked orchard fruit
• Those people in my life who love me, comfort me, and reassure me...who bless me beyond compare. 
• Rainy afternoons, the chorus of raindrops beating against the windowpane, the percussion of thunder acting as the perfect accompaniment. 
• The melodic streams of Owl City and Imogene Heap flowing out from my rolled-down car window into the humid summertime air. 
• The sweetest scents of vanilla, white jasmine, and lilac...the kiss of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and cinnamony peach cobbler...the natural scents of damp soil and blossoming tea roses. 
• The words from my favorite book...reminders that there is more to life than facts and numbers...parchment letters from Hogwarts, back-of-wardrobe fancies that may just lead me to my long-chased Narnian home, and the floral gardens of Jane Austen romance.

These things are my bliss...rich and sweet, strong and deep

These are my inspiration...full of light, rich with power.  

These are the gifts of my loving King...the soft whisper of my Savior reminding me that He cares for me closely.

This world is hard and strange and can feel, oh, so empty. 

But there are gifts here. 

There is love here. 

There is glory here. 

There is inspiration here. 

Art is a collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better.  ~André Gide

Yearner

Yearn–verb (used without object)

1.to have an earnest or strong desire; longing

2.to feel tenderness; be moved or attracted

I rarely follow Facebook status trends. 

I'm one of those people who posts Owl City song lyrics, random thoughts that interest me, my blog posts... miscellaneous things of that nature.

I don't generally follow the stream of "re-postings."

But today, I saw a fill-this-in status that I just couldn't resist passing along to my friends. It was something along the lines of picking one word that best described me using the third letter of your first name.

Cheesy? Cliche? 


Yes, perhaps...


...but it was worth it, for reasons you will soon understand. 

Friends posted words such as "blogger" and "elegant"...even some complimentary words that I would blush to post in my own praise. 

But the answer I got from my mother, Joyce, inspired me more than anything. 

The word she chose for me was "yearner." 

They say that your mother knows you better than any other person in the world. 

In this case, I would have to agree with whomever "they" are...which I do have yet to figure out.

My mother knows that, ever since I was a little girl, I have been a yearner...

...filled with passion for everything I undertake, hitting everything head-on and never letting go until I see my dreams through...

...a heart flooded with love and tenderness for others, one that breaks when people hurt or when I am the cause of their pain...unwilling to let go until their tears dry and their hearts begin to mend, regardless of the detriment to myself. 

 

This can be to my benefit...but it can also result in my own heartache. 

It's part of who I am, really. 

I hold on tightly, and I never let go. 

I love as hard as I can, and I refuse to let anyone suffer alone. 

Yes, my mama does know me best...

...because I am indeed a yearner.  

I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, always offering prayer with joy in my every prayer for you all, in view of your participation in the gospel from the first day until now. For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus. ~Philippians 1:3-6

Waltz

I'd rather waltz than just walk through the forest / The trees keep the tempo and they sway in time / Quartet of crickets chime in for the chorus / If I were to pluck on their heartstrings, would you strum on mine? ~Plant Life, Owl City


As many of you know, yesterday was not one of my favorite moments on the calender. 


A lot of things decided to happen all at once...one hard hit in particular was aimed at my blog, and got very close to shutting me down. 


However, throughout the entire disastrous evening, I was overwhelmingly blessed by the love that poured from the hearts of my friends as they leapt to my defense. 


I was blown away by the messages, emails, comments, and other various feedback that flew to my heart from the hand of God and the keyboards of my friends. 


A blog post written by Grace at Puddles of Memories...comments from Mary at Sue-Sue's Stories...text messages, emails, and phone calls from friends all around the world that are too numerous to mention all here...


...every last one of them added a small piece of wood to the flickering fire of hope and endurance in my heart.


All through the night and into the wee hours of the morning, the notes...the prayers...the words of encouragement continued to slip from glory and into my hand. 


And I awoke to waltzing. 


Yes, my heart still hurts...confusion still abounds. 


But I have been blessed by all of you. 


You were used by the King...


...to turn sorrow into joy


...and my mourning into dancing.


And again,


because of Him


and because of each and every one of you,


I will awake to waltz. 


Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: "What! You too? I thought I was the only one." ~C.S. Lewis


(For a more detailed account of the strike against DramaticElegance, and to get some very important new information about my URL and other blog changes, please take the time to read my post here.) 

Frustration (Important Announcement)

I am currently unhappy.

Hurt.

Broken-hearted.

Entirely flabbergasted.

Someone on my Facebook friend's list reported my blog as "abusive spam." This took away my ability to post links to my blog anywhere on my Facebook page or on my blog's Facebook page.

This required for me to change my blog's URL (which has now been changed back again to the original URL, thanks to the help of Facebook, some amazing friends, and an act of God), as well as make a few other small changes in the script and embedding process of my blog.

I need prayer from you all. For this to have happened, it would have had to have been someone on my friend's list who did this to me. Meaning, it had to have been someone that I call a friend. My heart is hurting, and I am wounded to the point of tears.

Please pray that I do not get bitter about this. Please pray that my heart heals. Please pray that my emotions stay in check and I allow God to work through this circumstance to grow me closer to Him.

My most sincere and heartfelt thanks to each one of you for your continued support.

You are a blessing, valued, and loved.

To any of you that changed my info to the updated URL, please put it back now, as that URL is now null and void. DramaticElegance is alive again.

Praise God.

(You can read my most recent blog post here.)

Sans

Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.  ~Kahlil Gibran


To the right is a picture of me. A picture of which I am honestly not all that fond.

I am not wearing even the tiniest bit of makeup...my hair is wind-tossed and blown out of proportion by humid summer winds.


It's not my best look. Not even a little bit.


Normally, I would never even consider posting a picture such as this one for all the world to see. 


However, there is a reason behind this strange behavior.

PAICFBWAA. 


The above jumble of letters stands for People Are Imperfect Campaign For Bloggers Who Are Awesome -- a truly brilliant idea started by Olivia and her simply spectacular blog, Of Horsefeathers. 


The concept? To embrace ourselves as truly beautiful and imperfect women.

The challenge? To post a photograph of ourselves with all the external "beautifiers" stripped away. 


To be entirely real.

I will be entirely transparent and say that I am a very insecure individual. There are so many things I dislike about myself...so many things that, if given the chance, I would take away or add in a heartbeat. 

I struggle to love myself....and as such, I struggle to let myself be loved by others, even those who look me deep in my eyes and whisper "you're beautiful" every single day. 


In my own eyes, my own beauty is non-existent. 


And so, I war with myself.


But this is a step for me.


Perhaps a small step...maybe even more of a two-inch wiggle. 


But it's movement forward. 


Sans makeup...sans styling.


One tiny step at a time.


I'm learning to love me.


I'm learning to be imperfect. 


I don't like standard beauty - there is no beauty without strangeness.  ~Karl Lagerfeld